


One Last Night

by JaggedCliffs



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Suicide Attempt, it has angelus in it so that should be a warning in and of itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaggedCliffs/pseuds/JaggedCliffs
Summary: It's the quiet moments, the small ones, that matter as much as the big ones. The ones where love settles like a blanket, sinks down to the bone, and fills the heart. From love comes pure happiness, even if only for a moment.A moment, after all, is all it takes.





	One Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in s3, shortly after “Choices” but before “The Prom”.
> 
> Thanks to [Mrs. Gordo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsGordo) for beta-ing and giving me some great suggestions!
> 
> I wrote this fic for two reasons (that are somewhat spoilery for the fic, so skip ahead if you'd prefer):
> 
> 1\. While watching the series, I thought [“hey, what if one moment of pure happiness had nothing to do with sex at all?”](https://jaggedcliffs.tumblr.com/post/168629681186/yknow-i-sometimes-wish-btvs-and-ats-hadnt-gone)
> 
> 2\. I wasn't happy how, from “The Prom” to “I Will Remember You”, Buffy has less agency in the decision-making in her relationship with Angel. Part of what I like about the Bangel ship is how Buffy makes a lot of the decisions regarding the relationship, and has most of the agency, without any of that bullshit “it's for her own good/protection” that goes on with a male superhero and his love interest. But then in “The Prom”, “Pangs”, and “I Will Remember You”, they fall back on those tired old tropes, when the point is that Buffy, as the superhero main character (at least on the BtVS side of things), _should_ get more say in the relationship as well. Thankfully, they returned to status-quo after IWRY where Buffy's agency is concerned, but I wanted to use this fic as an alternative to the breakup decision in “The Prom”.

She had just been grumbling about math.

There had been nothing world-shattering. Nothing that even shattered _her_ world, like the first time around.

Nothing even mildly important.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

She's nestled beneath Angel's arm, math homework on her lap, pencil bouncing against her knee as she tries to puzzle through polynomials. Angel is researching a demon they'd spotted earlier that night, doing her Slayer homework while she does her homework homework. It turns out math isn't any easier in the wee hours of the morning than in the late morning hours of her class. She asks for Angel's help, but he begs off, saying that he hadn't been good with math even while among the living, and it's changed significantly since his ye olden school days. Not in those exact words, but that's the gist of it.

“I guess math has always been evil. It's just a constant of the universe,” she sighs.

She melts further against his side, looking away from all that bothersome algebra and up to his much preferable face. He's looking back at her, a small smile lighting up his face, his eyes so soft, so full of love, it makes her heart skip a beat.

That's how she catches it. The moment it changes.

Shock and pain rip through the softness in his eyes, through that small, loving smile. His arm is no longer holding her close because he's falling forward, off the couch and onto the floor.

She's down by his side in a second, math homework and pencil and books scattering to the ground and she's screaming, “Angel! _Angel!_ ”

“ _No, no, no, no, no,_ ” he's gasping when she grabs hold of him. She tries to turn him over to face her, but he lurches halfway to his feet, away from her. He stumbles toward the far wall and she follows, rushing to catch him as he topples to the floor next to the weapons chest. He reaches up to fumble at the chest's lock, but she forcibly turns him around to face her, pleading, “ _Angel,_ what's _wrong?_ ”

“I'm sorry,” he pants, “I'm so, _so_ sorry.” His face crumples, first in sorrow, then in agony. “I love you,” he says, and her heart stutters, since every time he says those words life should brighten around her, except this time it's all wrong, and all she can feel is the panic scraping at her insides.

His hand reaches past her to the lock. He manages to flip the latch open just as a spasm rocks through him. He curls in on himself and she curls around him in response, not wanting to process this, not wanting to think, because understanding is clawing its way into the back of her mind, even though this _can't_ happen, _this can't happen._

He looks up at her, eyes so tender and loving despite the pain. A trembling hand reaches up to her face, and she grasps it like a lifeline. “Please,” he begs, he's _begging._ “Do it before I hurt anyone. Before I hurt you.”

And she knows she can't deny the truth any longer.

She brings his hand to her lips, and gently kisses his shaking fingers. “No,” she says quietly. “I won't do it. But I will stop you. I promise.”

He must believe her, since underneath the fear and anguish, there's trust in his eyes. She releases one of her hands from his and flips the chest's latch closed again. All the weapons in there are for slaying.

There will be no slaying tonight.

“I love you,” she says, because she wants to.

(Because if the unthinkable happens – if she fails, if she breaks her promise to him and herself, if her only option left is choosing between her love and another innocent life – she wants this to be the last thing his soul knows.)

“I lov–” he begins, and then cuts off in a scream.

She sees the shift in his eyes. She knows his soul has left him even before his head snaps back up, eyes yellow, his fangs bared and snarling.

She gets in the first punch. And the second, and the third.

He gets the fourth.

She loses her balance, tumbling off him onto the floor, and he springs up, mouth bloody, his eyes bright and gleefully cruel. But she sweeps his legs out from under him before he's completely steady, and he falls back to the ground.

She vaults to her feet and grabs a vase off the table behind her. She tries to smash it over his head while he's still down, except he catches her wrists. Growling, he rises to his feet, bringing her wrists with him until they're far above her head.

So she drops the vase. As it shatters on the floor, she jumps, placing one foot on his chest and using it to propel her other foot into his chin. It's enough to loosen to his grip, and she wrenches her wrists free as she turns the jump into a backflip, springboarding off him and away from his reach. She twists as she lands, turning towards him.

They're both on their feet, facing each other. She's breathing heavy. He's wiping the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand.

For a moment, they're still.

Then he smiles and opens his mouth, probably for some verbal jab about how Angel never loved her or how stupid she was to not have killed him when she had the chance. “Why, Buffy–” he begins.

And that's all he manages to say, because she launches herself back into the fray before he can utter whatever poison he's planning to say with Angel's mouth, in Angel's voice.

They've play-fought so many times before, in this place. She knows his rhythm, just as he knows hers.

They've fought so many times before, in the graveyards, in the school, and finally in this place. She had learned his rhythm then, just as he had learned hers.

She kicks him in the stomach. He punches her in the face. She shatters another vase over his head. He smashes a chair over her back. They loop round and round the room, over and around the couch and stands and tables, leaving destruction in their wake. She'd mourn the loss of it, the little domesticity they'd built together, if there wasn't a larger loss staring her right in the face.

At last, there's a break in their rhythm when he feints, she falls for it, and he gets too solid a hold of her arm. Wrenching her shoulder, he tosses her into the table in front of couch. It breaks beneath her, dumping her into splintered wood and her scattered math homework. She expects him to use her distraction to push his advantage, but instead he darts to the back exit, a grin thrown over his shoulder.

_Willow_ , she realizes with a lance of fear. _He's going to go after Willow._ She snatches her math textbook, whips it at his head, and before it collides and makes him stumble, she's on her feet. Sharpened and barely-used pencil in hand – she hadn't managed to solve many of those polynomials – she leaps at him, driving the pencil deep into his shoulder.

_See, math is good for something_ , the quipping part of her brain tells her, and she bites down on the thought, or else she might start laughing hysterically. Or start weeping.

He roars, swinging his fist at her, but she ducks and lashes out with her foot to the back of his right knee. His leg buckles, dropping him to one knee with one hand on the ground for balance. In the space of a breath, while he's down but turning towards her, she's already aiming a spinning roundhouse kick at the back of his head.

It connects solidly. She can feel the reverberations go up her leg, and she thinks something in her foot cracks.

She lands, hissing in pain when her injured foot makes contact with the ground, as Angel – Angelus, Angel, Angelus – falls limp next to her.

She wants to pause, take a breather, but she can't.

First, she checks. He's a good actor, they both know that. Yet when she lightly toes his head with her injured foot, it lolls.

He's not that good an actor.

She takes him by the shoulders and hauls him to the wall with the chains. They should have gone here _first_ , but _of course_ Angel went for the stake. The nuclear option.

( _Stupid, useless martyr complex_ , she thinks, and has to shut herself up before she starts crying.)

The wall chains go around his wrists. The extra pair of chains they have, in case they need to capture a demon on the go, are for his ankles. Rope is for his legs, as well as his wrists and hands – uncomfortable, sure, with his hands already above his head in chains, but better than the alternative. Besides, Angel would understand.

Lastly, though she debates it with herself, one of Angel's undershirts works as a gag.

She also considers pulling the pencil out from where it's partially dug into his left shoulder. Except the pain might wake him up, and there's no way she can deal with that yet.

And now...and now...and now _Willow_. Willow can fix this. So Buffy just needs to call her and tell her she needs to do the spell–

Except _duh_ , Angel doesn't _have_ a phone. She's not even sure if this place is wired for a phone connection. She complained to him about that, what was it, yesterday? Two days ago? _We_ _ **need**_ _to get this place more homely_ , she'd griped. _And not the ancient museum homeliness you have going on with all these vases and art and stuff_. And he'd smiled and said he'd see what he could do.

_Willow_ , she reminds herself, forcing herself out of the memory. _Get Willow._

She heads out the door Angelus was going to take, then hesitates.

She'll have to leave him alone. Alone, where he could escape and she wouldn't be there to stop him.

But it isn't like she has much of a choice, is it?

Half a second later, she's out the door.

It's when she's limp-running her way to Willow's house that her body seems to let go of the breath it's been holding since the moment Angel collapsed. Halfway there, at the edge of one cemetery that leads into a park, she stumbles against the chain-link fence. A strangled sob escapes from her mouth without her permission.

She was just grumbling about math.

Some stupid, selfish part of her wishes it could have been something more. If this was going to happen, couldn't it at least have been like _last_ time?

Couldn't she have had him, _all_ of him, just more time?

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes her less than fifteen minutes to make her way to Willow's house – it would have been a minute shorter if she'd managed to pull herself together quicker. Not even the two vamps she ran into were much trouble. They were dust in under ten seconds.

She climbs over the railing to the balcony with much less grace than she's used to. The adrenaline has drained from her body, and her Slayer healing isn't _that_ fast. It's not just her foot and wrenched shoulder giving her trouble, but all the other aches and bruises that have slowly made themselves known.

And yet Willow still doesn't wake up until Buffy starts knocking against the window.

Willow startles upward, looking around in bewilderment before she spots Buffy waving at her. She blinks at Buffy, rubs at her eyes, and lurches out of bed to the balcony before sliding the door open.

“Buffy!” Willow's face somehow looks as confused as her voice is pleased. “What are you doing here? Is there a nasty out there that you need help with? _Oooh_ , do you need me to do a spell?” Her face lights up, sleepiness vanishing.

“Willow,” Buffy manages, and then she cracks. It's like that time with Faith and the Mayor's assistant and blood on her hands all over again, and she can't stop crying on her best friend.

“Oh, no, Buffy, shhhh,” she can vaguely hear Willow saying as she guides Buffy to the bed so Buffy can better cry on her shoulder. Willow wraps her arms around Buffy, and Buffy leans into the contact, holding her back.

By the time her tears start drying up, it feels like it's been hours since she was sitting on Angel's couch, homework on her lap.

Willow must have felt her sobs dwindling as well, because she murmurs, “Did someone get hurt?” When Buffy can only let out a strange affirmative noise, she asks, “Are _you_ hurt? Should we call Giles?”

Buffy nods into Willow's shoulder. “Yes,” she chokes out. “Giles, we should–”

Then she thinks that Giles might not be the best person to talk to where Angelus is concerned. Except Willow is already reaching past her for the phone – still keeping one arm around Buffy – and awkwardly dialing one-handed before pressing the speakerphone button.

Buffy pulls herself upright, away from Willow's embrace, as Giles answers the phone with a distracted, “Yes, hello, Giles' residence.” He doesn't sound like he just woke up, so he must have been doing some late-night research of his own.

“Giles, it's Willow. Buffy's here with me, and...” Willow trails off, looking at Buffy questioningly.

“Buffy? Willow?” Now Giles is focused, sharp concern in his voice.

“It's Angel,” Buffy croaks.

Willow's face crumples in sympathy, and Buffy can almost hear Giles taking off his glasses over the phone. “Is he injured?” he asks. “Was it a demon attack?”

Buffy takes a breath. When she lets it out, her voice is steady enough as she says, “He's lost his soul.”

Giles makes a sound in the back of his throat, and there's a noise in the background like something heavy fell to the floor. Willows flinches back, gasping, _“Buffy!”_ and the _look_ she gives her is equal parts terror and betrayal. “H-how could you–”

_“No!”_ Buffy almost yells, before remembering Willow's parents are probably in the house. “No, it wasn't like that, I _swear_ . We didn't do _anything_ . We were being responsible, we were being _safe_ , we weren't even–” Buffy clamps down on that sentence, because she _really_ doesn't want Giles to know what she and Angel sometimes do together. “We were just sitting there on the couch, he was researching demons, I was doing my _homework_ ,” the word comes out as a splutter. “And I made some _stupid_ remark and he looked at me and smiled and then – then he was in pain, he _knew_ what was happening...”

She doesn't want to explain the rest – the reach for the stake, or the fight – but the outrage has already melted from Willow's face. “Oh,” she says quietly, even a bit guiltily. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't...know.”

“I-I see,” Giles says, shaken. Buffy wishes she could see him face-to-face, to know that he doesn't feel betrayed anymore either. “This-this is rather...”

“But that shouldn't happen!” Willow looks indignant on Buffy's behalf. Then she bites her lip and turns to the phone. “Should it?”

Buffy turns to the phone as well, desperately, like if Giles says it _shouldn't_ have happened, that means it hadn't.

But, “A moment of pure happiness,” Giles murmurs faintly. His sigh, however, comes through loud and clear. “Of course. Of course, how could we have been so careless...”

_“Careless?”_ Buffy shouts as loud as she dares. “I wasn't – I just _told_ you, we weren't–”

“It was _love_ , Buffy.” Giles isn't angry, or stern, only...resigned. “It was just love, pure and simple. You didn't need to do anything.”

It's Giles tone, his tired resignation, as much as his words that strike Buffy like one of Angelus' blows.

Buffy sits back. The shock on Willow's face is probably a mirror of her own.

They didn't need to _do_ anything.

_One moment of pure happiness_. Just from sitting with her. Just from _being_ with her.

She made him happy enough to forget.

She buries her face in her hands, and feels Willow wrap her arms around her. She doesn't want to think about what this means, about implications and adult stuff and achingly hard decisions and things she shouldn't _have_ to deal with, not now, not if her life was normal, not if she was normal girl with a normal boyfriend and–

Giles provides the perfect distraction. “Angel, right now, is he...?” he asks.

“I have him chained up,” Buffy says quickly, “at the mansion. He was unconscious when I left.” A jolt of panic rocks through her and she springs to her feet, out of Willow's hug. “I need to get back there, to make sure he doesn't...and Willow, you need to–”

“I know.” Willow nods. “I will. I just – I don't think I have all the ingredients with me. I don't know where I'd even get an Orb of Thesula now...” At Buffy's look, she quickly amends, “I can ask Michael if he has anything I need, though his dad took a lot of it during that whole Hansel and Gretel demon thingy. Amy probably would've had more, but she's...” She gestures helplessly at the rat run, where Amy is currently nibbling on some seeds. “I'll probably need to go to the Magic Shop, and they'll be closed at this hour.”

“Then break in if you have to.” Buffy's voice is a lot harsher than she intended. At Willow's startled expression, she says, much softer, “Willow, _please_.”

Giles cuts in with a polite _ahem_. “Considering the threat Angelus poses if he should break free, Willow, I think we can justify some...light breaking and entering. We can leave some money for the Orb and any ingredients on the counter.”

“Right.” Willow nods. “Right, okay. I'll get a list together. Giles, could you drive me there?”

“Of course.” There's a muted jangle of keys. “I'll leave right now.”

“Okay. Bye Giles!” Willow says at the phone. Before Buffy can join in, there's a click, and Giles is gone.

It's past time Buffy was gone too.

She's halfway to the window when Willow says, “Buffy.”

Buffy turns back. Willow's hands are fidgeting, and she's having trouble raising her eyes from the ground. “I know it hurts,” she says, her voice trembling. “I know it's _unfair_ and that it sucks, but...but we can't keep doing this. We can't just keep cursing him. He can't...” Willow's eyes flit up, and they're wide with fear. “Someone could get hurt.”

_Like Ms. Calendar,_ Buffy knows she means.

And there it is again, those grown-up decisions and sacrifices she shouldn't have to deal with, let alone after everything she's been through, everything she's fought for, everything she _knows_ she'll have to keep fighting for, and she _just_ got him back, they were happy together, they were going to have a _future_ together–

“I know,” Buffy says, and walks out of the room into the chill night air.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The gag is in tatters on the floor when she gets back.

She stares at the remains of the white undershirt, torn apart by Angel's fangs, then up at his face just as he shifts from vamp to human.

He leers at her.

“Gag and chains, huh? Ready to try out something new?”

It's too much like when Angel pretended to have lost his soul, with Faith. Buffy's sure that's exactly why he said it.

She strides past him to the weapons' chest, thinking that she should have grabbed a cross and some holy water while she was out. Months ago, Angel had told her it was fine if she left some here, but she'd figured it was rude to leave those kinds of things scattered around a vampire's house.

Instead, she makes do with a small crossbow and a sword, grabbing a whetstone and a couple extra bolts while she's at it. There's no reason to take out a stake when he knows she won't kill if she has a choice, and she doesn't want to get distracted by her Slayer instincts screaming _aim for the heart._

But some light – okay, heavy – stabbing in non-vital areas? That, she can and will do. And he knows it.

“So, what's the plan here, Buff?” Somehow, he even makes his voice sound like a leer. “A little BDSM while your boyfriend is out? Maybe some rough play?”

Refusing to humour him with a glance, let alone a reply, she drops her weapons onto the mutilated couch and pushes it towards the wall where he's chained, stuffing and fabric trailing behind her. She stops when the couch is far back enough that he couldn't touch her if he tried, but close enough that she could easily jab him with the sword. Grabbing her whetstone, she sits down on the couch in front of him.

“The plan is–” she says, dragging the stone across the sword “–you stand there all nice and silent-like–” another drag, sparks flying this time “–while I watch and make sure you do your best impression of a statue.”

Angelus lets out a sigh. “Oh, but that's no fun. I got a better idea. You set me free, and we go another round. I promise I'll be a good boy,” he purrs, “and I'll keep it between you and me. I know you want to.”

She doesn't bother looking away from her sword.

Another sigh, very put-upon this time. “Alright. How about you sit there, playing with your toys, and I tell you all the secrets loverboy doesn't want you to know?”

Now, Buffy can't help glaring at him. “You – he doesn't keep secrets from me.”

He gives her a look that's both pitying and amused. “You really think that?”

“I _know_ , that if I asked,” she gives the sword another pass with the stone, “he'd tell me.” Like he _said_ he would. Like he told her she could.

“Like with Drusilla, right?”

“Early stage in our relationship,” she says lightly.

“Like how he felt with Faith?”

Buffy pauses for a moment. “He told me how he felt. And I'm pretty sure anything _you'd_ have to say is utter bullshit.” If there are any doubts in her mind, she chooses to ignore them.

The sword is sharpened as much as it should be. Any more and it will start to wear at the steel. Which is too bad, because she'd _really_ prefer to have something else to do than listen to Angelus' mindgames.

She supposes there's always her math homework. Or whatever remains of it, anyway. Somehow, she doesn't think “the demonic husk of my boyfriend and I had a life-or-death battle over-top of it” will fly as an excuse with Mrs. Dustin. Plus, she'd have to grab her pencil first...the pencil that's still embedded in Angelus' shoulder.

Bracing herself, she puts down the crossbow and sword. Better to not have any weapons in reach in case the chains are too loose. “I'd tell you that I'm sorry for this,” she says as she walks up to him, “but I'm sure Angel will understand that I'm not.”

He grins down at her. “Oh? Should I be looking forward to a–”

The word ends in a yell as she yanks the pencil out of his shoulder. He snarls, face changing, and he strains against the chains to get at her. The chains rattle and clink but hold strong while Buffy backs away from him.

A safe distance away, she looks down at the bloody pencil, and wrinkles her nose. _“Ew.”_ Even if she wanted to, there's no way she'd be doing her homework with _that_.

At least she won't have to worry about the pencil healing inside him. Or having to pull it out of Angel later.

Because there will be a later. There'll definitely be a later.

_(This won't end like last time.)_

Tossing the gross pencil to the side, she sits back on the couch, crossbow in one hand and sword across her lap. She watches Angelus struggle as he growls and spits insults, some of which she's never heard of – half of them probably aren't from this century.

She stares at him impassively.

Soon enough, he calms down, chains settling around him. His face shifts back to human. She wonders if he believes his vamp face scares her more than the other.

But his human eyes are just as absent of Angel's love and humanity as his vampire eyes. It doesn't particularly make a difference which face he's wearing. Only who's wearing it.

“Alright,” he says, “how about another idea?”

Buffy raises an eyebrow. “I gag you again?”

He just smiles. “Why don't I tell you about hell?”

Buffy freezes.

He smiles wider, all confidence and cruelty and sharpness, a smile that has nothing of Angel in it.

“You know, I never got to thank Willow for putting that soul back in me just in time for you to send me to Aclatha's Dimension. I mean, sure, I got tortured out of my mind for about a century, but at least your boyfriend was back in the driver's seat.”

“I didn't want that,” she says before she can stop herself. “I didn't have a choice.”

“Right, the fate of the world and all that crap.” He rolls his eyes. “But the most important part of that trip to hell wasn't the torture. No, the most important part was _just_ how long it took until Angel began to _hate_ you.”

For a moment, she's numb, air rushing from her lungs and ice cascading through her veins. Then she laughs, though the sound is ragged and breathless. “You _really_ think I'd believe that? You think I'd believe that when he remembered who he was because of _me?_ You're really slipping there, oh master of pain and darkness.”

He shrugs as much as the chains allow, which isn't much. “Hey, don't blame me for the truth. It was a _long_ century, and I've only got two others under my belt. First your boyfriend was all self-flagellating, snivelling 'oh I deserve this for all the terrible things I've done, she must hate me, she's right to hate me, blah blah blah.' But then–” The disgust on his face shifts into a gratified smile, like he's reliving pleasant memories. “Then the resentment began to fester. _Then_ it was all ' _She_ sent me here. _She_ did this to me.” The smile disappears, and his voice grows into a roar. “ _She's_ the reason why I'm _being torture every second of my eternal life!_ '”

Buffy flinches.

Angelus grins. “Let me tell you, after all that _whining_ and sappy, lovey-dovey moaning, it was nice to get back to something of my old self, hating you with every fibre–”

“You're lying.” The words are softer than she wanted them, but they shut him up all the same. “You can't get your hands on me, so you're lying and doing whatever damage you can until we put you away again.”

A snort. “I don't need to _lie_ to hurt you.”

“Fine.” Buffy stands up, sword in hand, and begins to pace in front of the couch. “Say you're right. Say Angel began to hate me in hell. But now–” she swings back to face Angelus “–I know he loves me. By the time he came back here, from hell–” she walks up to him, staring into those hateful eyes, “–he loved me.”

She leans forward, face inches from his. Drawing out each word slowly, tauntingly, she drawls, “ _You. Loved. Me._ ”

A growl comes out of him, low and through thin lips, though his face remains human. He leans toward her as much as the chains allow, until they're almost kissing distance. “Would you like to hear what they _did_ to him in hell?” he snarls, his gaze pure loathing. “Which decade of torture finally broke him?”

Buffy's hands are shaking. She hopes he won't look down. “Actually, I'd rather go with my gag idea. There's gotta be more than a few nice, sturdy shirts in the closet, don't you think?”

He stares at her another moment, rage molten in his eyes. Then he laughs and straightens. “Alright, Buffy's guilty conscious is off-limits.”

She straightens as well. “How about all talking is off-limits?”

“What, you think I'm going to stand here all nice and quiet like a good little boy, and wait for that witch to stick a soul back in me? No, and I don't think you want me to either. I mean, if you don't want to hear me talk, why haven't you made good on your threat yet? I think you _want_ to hear what your boyfriend doesn't plan on telling you.”

“Okay, you've convinced me.” Buffy smiles, though it feels more like a baring of teeth. “You'll be gagged until you're back to normal.”

“Normal? I _am_ normal. This is the real me, right here, babe.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Your boyfriend died in an alley in seventeen fifty-three. _I'm_ what came next. Face it, Buff, you've fucked a corpse.”

She punches his face. Hard. His head snaps back and his feet lose their grip. A moment later she feels guilty, because for all she knows Willow will work her magic in a minute and Angel will be left with the bruise.

Then Angelus smirks. “Did I touch a nerve?” he asks.

Buffy decides it will probably take Willow another few hours – the bruises will have healed by then. In lieu of responding to him, she turns on her heel and marches into Angel's bedroom. It takes her about a minute to find what she's looking for.

As she walks back toward him, one hand hidden behind her, the other with her sword in plain view, he seems unconcerned. “Find everything you need, lover?” he asks indolently, full of arrogant amusement.

She grins.

When she shoves the belt between his teeth, the dismay on his face soothes a tendril of the rage seething under her skin. He thrashes and growls, but she manages to wrap the belt around his head twice before buckling it up.

Finished, she takes stock of the post-natural-disaster-area of a room. And starts clearing away what she can.

She discovers the domestic arts aren't her forte when her attempts with the broom she found in a closet just end up further scattering splinters, dust, and stuffing. She doesn't know how Mom makes this looks so easy.

She also discovers that the silence isn't quite as nice as she'd thought it would be.

Angelus not making noise? That's heavenly.

The noise trying to clutter her head? Not so much.

Because the silence means she has time to think. And she doesn't _want_ to think the thoughts coming to her head.

She doesn't want to think beyond this night, beyond this moment, beyond the sound of the broom against the floor and the messy strokes of debris she leaves in its wake.

When Angelus talked, she had to be on guard, snapping out the next comeback, figuring out the best response, keeping him from getting into her head. She could put all her focus on him.

But silence means thinking.

Thinking means facing facts.

She decides she'd rather think about how she's going dispose of all these shattered vase parts, especially when she has no idea where Angel keeps his garbage bags. If he does have garbage bags.

That's a better conundrum to focus on.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

She's brushing – poorly – parts of the broken table to join the broken vase bits in a corner of the room, when there's a soft _thump_ and harder _chink_ of the belt hitting the floor.

“Staring to look real homey again, isn't it?” His voice is soft and low. “Seeing as lovemaking isn't part of this whole curse-breaking deal, you planning on jumping my bones as soon as they shove a soul back in? Hell, we could start sooner if you'd like.”

She doesn't stop sweeping. “What I'm planning is none of your business.”

She knows she could go get another belt and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

She doesn't.

After a moment, he laughs. “You know, it's kind of sad.”

She won't rise to the bait. She _won't._

“ _What's_ so sad?” she bites out, and mentally kicks herself.

“You and _him_ ,” he sneers. “He's been here since the seventeen-hundreds. You've known him for less than three years. _Three years_ , out of two hundred and fifty, and you think you can love him? You think you _know_ him? I mean, the things he's done as a human, let alone with a soul–”

“I don't care.”

“You sure? You don't know the people he's hurt, the people he's let die. Hell, there was this whole hotel back in the fifties–”

“I said, _I don't care_ ,” she growls through gritted teeth, and finally looks at him. He's smiling like the cat that got the cream. Or is it the canary? Either way, he looks too smugly satisfied for her liking. “Angel's not doing any of that now. We all do things we regret. I mean–” her mind casts around for an example. “Look at Giles. He was part of a demon-worshipping cult in college. And now–”

He raises an eyebrow. “Now he endangers your life because a bunch of stuffy old men told him to?”

The sharp memory of the betrayal on her eighteenth birthday pierces through her, along with the cold fury and crushing sadness that had followed. She tries not to let any of it show. “Exactly,” she says slowly, getting her voice under control. “Even now, he does things that he regrets. Things he wouldn't do again.”

“You sure?”

_“Yes.”_ She snaps. “I'm sure. We all make mistakes, or do stupid things that we can't take back, but–”

“Like helping kill the deputy mayor?”

She stops cold in the middle of her speech, and wishes he didn't have the power to keep doing that.

But Angel knows her. He's as much her confidant as Willow. All those private conversations she's had with Angel, all the comfort she's sought, all the doubts she's whispered to him in graveyards and bedrooms...Angelus remembers every single _moment_.

It chills her.

He must see it, because his eyes dance with a vicious glee.

“Oh, I know you were going all wild with Faith – and I have to say, that bad girl routine?” He wolf whistles. “I could stand to see more of _that_. You could have stopped it much earlier, but no, you had a taste of Faith's _brand_ , and you wanted more.”

It was a conversation they had after Faith slipped away from Wesley and saved Buffy at the docks, her and Angel both curled up on the bed–

_“I was being so stupid–”_

_“You couldn't control her actions.” A light kiss to her forehead_

_“No, but I could have done **something!** Instead, I just went along with it – I mean, after getting picked up by the cops, you think that would have been a clue–”_

_“It was an_ _**accident** _ _, Buffy.” He squeezes her tighter. “Besides, you said you tried to stop her before she stabbed him. Even if you'd said no to everything, for all you know it could have ended up the same.”_

“Or how about,” Angelus says, voice smooth as silk, “letting Faith slip away to the mayor? No, no, not just slip, but _encouraging_ her? Are you sure you didn't hold back on your do-gooder speeches just a _little?_ It'd be better to have me all to yourself, right? Not just me, but your friends, your mother, Giles...”

That was from months ago, leaning against a mausoleum in the graveyard–

_“I know, I shouldn't have worried, but after I ran away...it was like they flocked to her. The shiny new cool slayer, who won't run off and abandon her friends or her mom–”_

_“Hey.” His hip bumps into hers. “You're being too hard on yourself. I mean, you thought_ _ **your mom**_ _kicked_ _you out for good, not to mention the scho_ _ol or the cops._ _And after...after what I did to you, to all of you...”_

_“Hey, now who's being to hard on themselves?” She grasps his hand, and looks him in the eye. “Souled you isn't soulless you.”_

_He has a shadow of a smile, though it doesn't look like he believes her. “You know they care about you. All of them. Faith won't change that.”_

_She smiles, a real smile. “Reasonable Buffy-brain says that you make sense. Unreasonable Buffy-brain says grrr, she's stealing my people, must smash.”_

“If she decided to get her kicks from team evil, wouldn't that mean more time for you in your little circle? Sharing the spotlight – that must have been _rough._ ”

“Why am I even talking to you,” Buffy mutters as she leaves the room.

“How many of your school-friends are going to bite it at graduation because the Slayer couldn't share?” His voice follows her to the bedroom, filling the mansion. “Is that what got Kendra killed? You were happy enough to leave her behind at the school, so it would just be _you you you?_ ” She marches back towards him. He's grinning. “Did you take your sweet time getting back to the library that night, Buff? Did you let Kendra–”

She shoves the belt into his mouth.

She wraps it tighter this time.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

She thinks this gag takes about an hour. It's difficult to tell – the clock is in pieces in a corner of the room Buffy has mentally labelled “garbage mountain.” She still hasn't found any garbage bags.

She's been checking on Angelus more often, looking for the orange-gold glow that should light his eyes, the limpness as Angelus disappears and the soul takes over the body once more.

The waiting is killing her. Waiting for Willow to complete the spell. Waiting for Angelus to speak again.

The waiting is killing her, because she can't keep the fear from creeping over her any longer. Her hands shake. Her breath is pained in her chest. The mayor's words flit through her head.

_What life do you have to offer her?_

The waiting leaves room for her to think. If she thinks, she'll fall apart.

But she won't fall apart in front of _him_. Even if she's gone from cleaning what she can to practising with her sword, even if she can feel his eyes on her like she's his entertainment...at least she's thinking about the ache of her muscles, the sweat beading her forehead, the difficulty of balancing on a floor covered in splinters. Not of what's coming next.

A few seconds after the telltale sound of the belt hitting the floor, he speaks.

“Don't you wonder what's taking Willow so long? I'm guessing she doesn't have an Orb of Thesula handy, which means she has to go out and get one...all on her own, in the dark night, with no Slayer to protect her...”

Buffy pivots out of her routine to face him, her free hand on her hip. “Yeah, I'm sure Giles, Xander, and Oz would be no help at all.”

He shrugs. “Maybe against vamps. But Faith and the mayor are still out there.” His expression lights up. “Hey, you think if they ran into one of the mayor's goons, I'll be out home-free? I'll bet Faith is still into a little team up, torture, and fucking each other's brains out.”

He looks at her like he's waiting for her reaction, as if Angelus' plans to bang Faith hurt more than it had watching Angel crawl all over Faith while only pretending to be a soulless monster.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “That assumes you're getting out of here. Oh, wait.” Buffy strides over to the curtains, and peeks outside. The horizon is greying – not quite dawn, but close. She spins back to face him. “Yep, sun's on its way soon. Guess you're stuck here with me no matter what.”

Now he looks downright peeved. For once, he doesn't have a snarky answer for her.

Buffy leans against the far wall. She hasn't slept in almost a full day, yet there's a taunt energy coursing through her despite the exhaustion.

She pokes her head past the curtains again. It's grey, edging on a low blue. Willow _should_ be done soon. As long as Angelus isn't right that something happened to her.

“So how is this going to work?” His voice cuts through her thoughts. “You're going to keep cursing me every time I get out to stretch my legs? Or is it more of a time-share – he gets a bit of fun, I get a bit of fun, you get to fuck and fight to your heart's–”

“There are still more belts in the closet,” she warns him.

He approximates a shrug, accompanied by the clanking of chains. “I'm just wondering what your plan is. You thinking of living a life with him? Start a family – oh no, wait, you can't do that, can you? Grow old – wait, no, that's out too.” He tilts his head and smiles. “So what's it going to be, lover?”

He knows he's going away. He knows Buffy won't let this happen anymore, and he knows Angel will be even more careful. He knows he's not getting out like this again. And she knows he wants to see her break, if it's the last thing he does.

The problem is, it's working.

That fear is creeping back, shaking her hands and stealing her breath.

She loves him, just as he loves her. And that's the problem.

She has to let him go.

She feels the tears spring to her eyes, the sobs ready to tear at her throat. She can't breathe. She wants to sink to her knees. She wants to scream. She wants to hit him. She wants to punch something until her knuckles bleed and all the pain is in her hands instead of inside her.

But she doesn't.

She'll save her tears for Angel.

So she clenches her fists, digs her nails deep enough to draw blood, swallows back the sobs, and bares her teeth. She stalks over to Angelus and grasps him by the lapels. “I'll do what I _have to_ ,” she snarls. “I'll do what I need to, and _you_ –” she shakes him “–you won't be there to _see it_.”

He laughs. “Oh Buffy, don't you know? I'll always be–”

He chokes, eyes going wide. Orange-gold light shines in their depths, and his body slumps forward against the chains.

The sword is falling out of Buffy's hand, clattering to the floor, and Buffy is pulling at the knots around his legs and wrists, ripping them off–

And Angel looks at her. Before he even seems to realize he's chained to the wall, he sees her face.

“Buffy?” he asks, just as disorientated and lost as the first time.

“Angel,” she breathes, and the tears come pouring of her. She fumbles with the key to let him out and manages to get the chains around his arms unlocked. And then they're sinking to their knees, Angel trying to comfort her even in his confusion, holding her close, whispering, “Buffy, Buffy, it's okay.”

It's not.

It's not, but it's better to let him have this lie.

She holds him back.

Before he remembers.

Before they both know what they have to do.

She holds him.


End file.
